Murder Is Easy (Superintendent Battle 4)

“No, indeed, Mr. Fitzwilliam. It is not a thing one can be sure about! I mean, it might all be imagination. Living alone, with no one to consult or to talk to, one might easily become melodramatic and imagine things which had no foundation in fact.”

Luke assented readily to this statement, recognizing its inherent truth, but he added gently:

“But you are sure in your own mind?”

Even here Miss Waynflete showed a little reluctance.

“We are not talking at cross-purposes, I hope?” she demurred.

Luke smiled.

“You would like me to put it in plain words? Very well. You do think that Amy Gibbs was murdered?”

Honoria Waynflete flinched a little at the crudity of the language. She said:

“I don’t feel at all happy about her death. Not at all happy. The whole thing is profoundly unsatisfactory in my opinion.”

Luke said patiently:

“But you don’t think her death was a natural one?”

“No.”

“You don’t believe it was an accident?”

“It seems to me most improbable. There are so many—”

Luke cut her short.

“You don’t think it was suicide?”

“Emphatically not.”

“Then,” said Luke gently, “you do think that it was murder?”

Miss Waynflete hesitated, gulped, and bravely took the plunge.

“Yes,” she said. “I do!”

“Good. Now we can get on with things.”

“But I have really no evidence on which to base that belief,” Miss Waynflete explained anxiously. “It is entirely an idea!”

“Quite so. This is a private conversation. We are merely speaking about what we think and suspect. We suspect Amy Gibbs was murdered. Who do we think murdered her?”

Miss Waynflete shook her head. She was looking very troubled.

Luke said, watching her:

“Who had reason to murder her?”

Miss Waynflete said slowly:

“She had had a quarrel, I believe, with her young man at the garage, Jim Harvey—a most steady, superior young man. I know one reads in the papers of young men attacking their sweethearts and dreadful things like that, but I really can’t believe that Jim would do such a thing.”

Luke nodded.

Miss Waynflete went on.

“Besides, I can’t believe that he would do it that way. Climb up to her window and substitute a bottle of poison for the other one with the cough mixture. I mean, that doesn’t seem—”

Luke came to the rescue as she hesitated.

“It’s not the act of an angry lover? I agree. In my opinion we can wash Jim Harvey right out. Amy was killed (we’re agreeing she was killed) by someone who wanted to get her out of the way and who planned the crime carefully so that it should appear to be an accident. Now have you any idea—any hunch—shall we put it like that?—who that person could be?”

Miss Waynflete said:

“No—really—no, I haven’t the least idea!”

“Sure?”

“N-no—no, indeed.”

Luke looked at her thoughtfully. The denial, he felt, had not rung quite true. He went on:

“You know of no motive?”

“No motive whatever.”

That was more emphatic.

“Had she been in many places in Wychwood?”

“She was with the Hortons for a year before going to Lord Whitfield.”

Luke summed up rapidly.

“It’s like this, then. Somebody wanted that girl out of the way. From the given facts we assume that—first—it was a man and a man of moderately old-fashioned outlook (as shown by the hat paint touch), and secondly that it must have been a reasonably athletic man since it is clear he must have climbed up over the outhouse to the girl’s window. You agree on those points?”

“Absolutely,” said Miss Waynflete.

“Do you mind if I go round and have a try myself?”

“Not at all. I think it is a very good idea.”

She led him out by a side door and round to the backyard. Luke managed to reach the outhouse roof without much trouble. From there he could easily raise the sash of the girl’s window and with a slight effort hoist himself into the room. A few minutes later he rejoined Miss Waynflete on the path below, wiping his hands on his handkerchief.

“Actually it’s easier than it looks,” he said. “You want a certain amount of muscle, that’s all. There were no signs on the sill or outside?”

Miss Waynflete shook her head.

“I don’t think so. Of course the constable climbed up this way.”

“So that if there were any traces they would be taken to be his. How the police force assists the criminal! Well, that’s that!”

Miss Waynflete led the way back to the house.

“Was Amy Gibbs a heavy sleeper?” he asked.

Miss Waynflete replied acidly:

“It was extremely difficult to get her up in the morning. Sometimes I would knock again and again, and call out to her before she answered. But then, you know, Mr. Fitzwilliam, there’s a saying there are none so deaf as those who will not hear!”

“That’s true,” acknowledged Luke. “Well, now, Miss Waynflete, we come to the question of motive. Starting with the most obvious one, do you think there was anything between that fellow Ellsworthy and the girl?” He added hastily, “This is just your opinion I’m asking. Only that.”

“If it’s a matter of opinion, I would say yes.”

Luke nodded.

“In your opinion, would the girl Amy have stuck at a spot of blackmail?”

“Again as a matter of opinion, I should say that that was quite possible.”

“Do you happen to know if she had much money in her possession at the time of her death?”

Miss Waynflete reflected.

“I do not think so. If she had had any unusual amount I think I should have heard about it.”

“And she hadn’t launched into any unusual extravagance before she died?”

“I don’t think so.”

“That rather militates against the blackmail theory. The victim usually pays once before he decides to proceed to extremes. There’s another theory. The girl might know something.”

“What kind of thing?”

“She might have knowledge that w

as dangerous to someone here in Wychwood. We’ll take a strictly hypothetical case. She’d been in service in a good many houses here. Supposing she came to know of something that would damage say, someone like Mr. Abbot, professionally.”

“Mr. Abbot?”

Luke said quickly:

“Or possibly some negligence or unprofessional conduct on the part of Dr. Thomas.”

Miss Waynflete began, “But surely—” and then stopped.

Luke went on:

“Amy Gibbs was housemaid, you said, in the Hortons’ house at the time when Mrs. Horton died.”

There was a moment’s pause, then Miss Waynflete said:

“Will you tell me, Mr. Fitzwilliam, why you bring the Hortons into this? Mrs. Horton died over a year ago.”

“Yes, and the girl Amy was there at the time.”

“I see. What have the Hortons to do with it?”

“I don’t know. I—just wondered. Mrs. Horton died of acute gastritis, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Was her death at all unexpected?”

Miss Waynflete said slowly:

“It was to me. You see, she had been getting much better—seemed well on the road to recovery—and then she had a sudden relapse and died.”

“Was Dr. Thomas surprised?”

“I don’t know. I believe he was.”

“And the nurses, what did they say?”

“In my experience,” said Miss Waynflete, “hospital nurses are never surprised at any case taking a turn for the worse! It is recovery that surprises them.”

“But her death surprised you?” Luke persisted.

“Yes. I had been with her only the day before, and she had seemed very much better, talked and seemed quite cheerful.”

“What did she think about her own illness?”

“She complained that the nurses were poisoning her. She had had one nurse sent away, but she said these two were just as bad!”

“I suppose you didn’t pay much attention to that?”

“Well, no, I thought it was all part of the illness. And she was a very suspicious woman and—it may be unkind to say so—but she liked to make herself important. No doctor ever understood her case—and it was never anything simple—it must either be some very obscure disease or else somebody was ‘trying to get her out of the way.’”

Luke tried to make his voice casual.

“She didn’t suspect her husband of trying to do her in?”